


Rise from the Clay

by AstralFire, IamandI



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Crossover, F/M, Gen, M/M, what have i gotten myself into
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-08 04:37:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 12,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstralFire/pseuds/AstralFire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamandI/pseuds/IamandI
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'm not sure when I'll have the time to finish transcribing all of this modern AU birthed between a friend and me (mostly her), but it's so lovely and diverse and wonderful that I'll try my best. P.S. Apologies for the relationship  tags....</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Genesis

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure when I'll have the time to finish transcribing all of this modern AU birthed between a friend and me (mostly her), but it's so lovely and diverse and wonderful that I'll try my best. P.S. Apologies for the relationship tags....

By the time Altaïr, barely a teenager, reaches the northern city in America, it is already the dead of winter.

Snow blankets every inch of the place, and Altaïr likens it to the only thing he remembers from his restless days in Syria: the ochre sands of the silent deserts, the ones that stretch for miles beyond the sky-kissing towers of the compound. _The_ Compound, a cut-off section of tin and stone training boys to become killers, a dilapidated matriarch raising orphaned terrorists who will slaughter mercilessly for the sake of the Law, the Way, and the Truth.

This icy chaos, though, is not like the sands, and after his initial surprise at being capsulated in the powdery stuff, Altaïr's awe turns quickly to revulsion and loathing. Stepping out of the forest of concrete and into the open expanse of white park, he meets the wind head on, and it bites through what little clothing clings to his lean and wiry body.

In the city, it's cold, and it's dark, and it's quiet.

Tired from hunger, tired from running, he seeks refuge on a park bench, curls himself inward on it, inward into himself where the faint thrum of his heart (survive, survive, survive) is the only thing that can warm him. An ember in his soul, burning as bright as his eyes glow, keeps him alive just long enough to be found. It's destiny, or fate. It's something he can't quite grasp just yet.

The man melts out of the cold air like a black phantom, dressed from head to toe in the most expensive three piece suit ever made, and Altaïr, as he looks up, thinks he may be fond of the red tie perched over the black shirt and vest. Kneeling, the man's knees creak, but the sound is muffled by the snowy wind, and a hand is extended soon, a glove removed, the backs of a few fingers brushing Altaïr's feverish and blue skin below the scraggly hair. Snow has settled itself in a little blanket over Altaïr's body, and the man casually sweeps it away.

Time is distorted then, and Altaïr thinks later, when he opens his eyes finally, that he has maybe died. He's in the back of a car, in the lap of the man from earlier, the man who may be God. "Ezio," the man whispers. Altaïr believes suddenly that this may really be God, one who knows his blurred thoughts without effort, and he only half understands what this name could mean.

He knows he should be worried, but somehow he isn't. The man is warm, inviting, cradling him like a child, and the car is warm, and all Altaïr can think before the drowsy and fuzzy heat takes him again is that, if this is death, it's not so bad.


	2. Method and Madness

In the beginning, Ezio is unsure if he has saved an alien, or a boy.

Naturally, Altaïr starts out in his own bed, or perhaps the couch, but in the early hours of the night, Altaïr ends up in Ezio's bed instead. There is a shy quietness to Altaïr, and it lingers even in the cover of darkness as he scoots himself flush up against Ezio's broad shoulders and back. (Never in the front, Ezio remembers, and never on the chest, always the back.) There is only a lump Ezio can feel behind him, a curled and still slightly malnourished boy who will never put an arm around him, whose deep breathing can barely be heard over the buzz of silence, or the air conditioning's purr.

Mesmerized by the orphan with skin the color of cream-and-milk-coffee, the orphan who understands no English or Italian, muttering only occasionally in the drum beat language of the East, Ezio longs to hold and explore. Twinges of it come here and there, the longing, but the weight of it really settles over him during the hours when Altaïr huddles against him in the night. There is so much to know, to learn, Ezio thinks, if only he could map the pale saddle and cork flesh, feeling the scars he knows sit under the clothes, like the one on the lip, feeling the taut and lean muscles on the stomach and arms. It makes him sad, he realizes; he knows the boy isn't just any ordinary one from a terrible third world. The boy is a killer.

In the morning, Altaïr is gone.

At first, Ezio thinks that Altaïr has returned to his own bed, but when Ezio looks, he finds no lump below the sheets. Perplexed, Ezio checks the couch, and then the kitchen, the chairs, even below the bed too: no sign of Altaïr.

A bit of anxiety swells in Ezio's chest, making it tight and stiff, and he looks over his tracks again to see if Altaïr will seep out of the walls or floors like a ghost. Nothing. In desperation, Ezio checks the closet in the bathroom (he has already checked his and the guest room's closets) and, lo and behold, Altaïr is actually wedged on one of the shelves between a few rolled towels.

It's a strange sight, Ezio thinks: a half grown boy balled up on the lowest shelf, tucked back into the depths of darkness and wood, between some cotton, and Ezio isn't sure why Altaïr would even think to sleep in a place like this when there is something better, when there's a bed and a couch.

Of course, Ezio coaxes Altaïr out, but there's no reasoning behind either of them due to the language barrier. The day goes as planned, but the next morning, Altaïr is back in the closet; the day after is fine, but the next morning, Altaïr is in the bathtub instead; and a week later, the days are normal, but the next morning finds Altaïr again sleeping on the sturdy shelf in the closet.

Finally, Ezio gives into this madness and relents, has a little ventilation shutter installed on the door to the closet so that Altaïr can at least breathe if nothing else.

In time, Altaïr grows out of constantly sleeping in the closet or the bathtub, but there are times when something strange and otherworldly overwhelms him, plaguing his thoughts and his dreams with blood, and sand, and steel. Quietly, he will seek refuge in the dark void of the small closet, will hike his knees to his chest and just lie there, inhaling the scent of white oak and Downy while trying not to think about the howl of bullets and the smell of flesh and smoke.


	3. Blood, Earth, and Sea

The door opens, and Altaïr glances over his shoulder, fingers pausing with the desk ornament.

Two people enter, and, in hindsight, Altaïr knows he will never forget this day: two boys, as dark as mahogany or cherry wood, one a head taller than the other, but both looking almost like twins. The youngest one, smiling curiously and eagerly, has the most brilliant and surprising eyes Altaïr has ever seen—blue, all blue, swarming and sharp blue, and Altaïr worries he may drown in them, so he looks instead to the other boy, only to realize he may get consumed still by the burnt sienna he finds there waiting, the blood-and-earthy gaze of uncertainty and caution.

"Al-Sayf," Ezio says from the other side of the desk, motioning with a hand while Altaïr looks on. "Malik"—Ezio points them out—"and Kadar."

Kadar, the youngest, the one with those haunting blue eyes, steps forward enthusiastically. "Hello, it's nice to meet you finally," he says, and it's in the familiar bark of Arabic.

Altaïr is stunned, and his fingers release the Newton's Cradle, causing a loud clack of sudden noise when the metal orbs connect and transfer momentum. The familiar roll of Eastern names and his mother tongue are given to him like a dish of lemon pudding, sweet and tart all at once.

It had been so long since he heard words he understood, but now he doesn't quite know what to say. Kadar continues to smile encouragingly, intrigued; however, Malik, who stands behind, looks just as sour as ever.

"Hello," Altaïr tries timidly.

"He does speak Arabic!" Kadar says in English, more to Ezio, and he pushes the few steps forward to close the distance between him and Altaïr and desk. "Oh man, we get to teach him English, don't we?" When he looks at Ezio, the man nods, and then Kadar turns around to grin. "Malik," he says, waving his brother over, "we're going to have so much fun. It's someone like us."

Like us, Malik thinks. Looking at Altaïr, who looks right back at him, Malik doesn't believe they are alike at all. Pale skinned and golden eyed, foreign even with the rumble of Arabic in the throat—no, Malik doesn't believe they are alike.

Not one bit.


	4. Love with Stars and Thorns

It takes years, but Malik and Kadar slowly teach Altaïr how to speak English. Both Al-Sayf brothers continue to attend school at Ezio's behest, but Altaïr remains in the familiar solitude of an Assassin, his shy and careful nature slowly dissipating into something more confident and arrogant.

"I remember being on the plane," Kadar says to Altaïr over the sound of the shower's spray, dark hair matted to his forehead, blue eyes like crystal treasures staring from the middle of teak wood.

Kadar knows his body is changing, and it makes him embarrassed under the gaze of his brother, who he fears, as they are bathing, will say something is not as it should be; he tenaciously forgoes any further hygienic adventures with Malik, much to the brother's confusion. With Altaïr, there are no obligations to become a perfect man because Altaïr isn't a perfect man either, and so Kadar often wiggles his way into the shower with the half-Arab with broken lips. It's a surprisingly chaste endeavor, craved for company.

"Malik says I wouldn't remember much because I was little, but I do remember some," Kadar is saying, leaning against the wall of the shower while Altaïr mechanically goes about washing that mousey-brown hair. "I remember the compound we were in. I remember them telling me, 'Take this knife!' and Malik wouldn't ever let me. He took it instead. I tried to ask him what the knife meant, what he had to do with it, but he won't ever tell me. I remember when we just… left. Malik just made us leave out of nowhere, dragged me Hell and a day to get to the nearest city. I thought we'd starve to death before we got there. I remember the plane was scary"—here, Kadar laughs—"and Malik says I cried the entire way from Syria to California."

Slowly, Altaïr looks up, but he doesn't say anything at all, head covered in suds. He thinks, for a moment, he has a sharp clench of jealousy, if that's what jealousy feels like at all. Kadar is lucky, he thinks too, bitterly, getting all of Malik's attention. After a moment, Altaïr gives Kadar a look that says to continue, and then he turns back to rinse his head.

Kadar, ever the talkative sweetheart, is obliging. "We didn't have anything but our clothes and a backpack. We slept wherever we could, but I don't think Malik really slept." Wryly, Kadar smiles through the humid steam of the shower, eyes watching the water swirl endlessly down the drain. "We would have died in California, two ratty things like us. Malik actually stole something. He stole quite a few things, and then pawned them, and then we got bus tickets to Georgia."

"You've been South?" Altaïr asks, intrigued, pausing and blinking his eyes to rid his lashes of water.

"Mhm," replies Kadar with another smile. "I loved it. Georgia was nice, especially in the country. Open fields, warm, tons of trees, horses—oh, and they have these peach farms, too."

Altaïr closes the distance from here to there, bunches Kadar into the wall, and Kadar doesn't refuse the assertive advance. "We'll go," Altaïr whispers, tilting his head and leaning it down, a thousand goose bumps not from the cold raised between them, on their skin like beach sand. "We'll go again together, to Georgia."

And then he's kissing Kadar, for the first time, a bit timidly, but he's thinking of Malik.


	5. Wood Touched by Fire

Many days, Kadar and Altaïr have passionate trysts in secret. Kadar swells with love and adoration, a pining and worshiping of Altaïr, idolatry at its finest. For Altaïr, the coupling is merely a way to extend his fantasies, the ones he has of Malik, though he slowly finds himself loving, in his own way, the blue-eyed Al-Sayf more and more.

Unfortunately, Malik has walked in on them.

First snow on the ground always excites Kadar to no end, and this year, first snow is deep snow. Malik opens the door to the bedroom with full intent to startle Kadar with the news, with an offer of adventure, only to find Altaïr taking great liberties with his brother's dark, bare body. The two of them freeze, and Kadar is immediately petrified and embarrassed. Altaïr is irate at best. Shock pours over Malik's face and, as he had come in, he exits: exhaling sharply, pulling the door closed with purpose.

Kadar calls after him, but he is well through the other side of the apartment by the time the bedroom door opens.

Malik finds himself outside in the snow, running through it, lungs burning, letting the ice slap him in the face as it comes down in heavy sheets to cover the man-made world in innocent white. He is ashamed he could not protect his brother's purity despite how hard he tries, and he tosses himself into a snow bank, letting his body roast from the inside and sink him down into the cover of cold.

Without knowing or realizing, Malik becomes jealous.

The jealousy grows the more missions they take together here and there. Malik can hear them under the sheets on the floor. Malik can hear them in the bed of the truck while he is in the cabin. Malik can hear them in the shower, on the couch, in the kitchen, in the next room, in his dreams.

In the end, Kadar knows. In a way, it pains him terribly. To Altaïr, he is only second best compared to the mystery of his brown-skinned sibling.

Altaïr whispers out Malik's name accidentally while they are making love, and Kadar can easily see the way his brother looks at Altaïr with envious contempt. It takes some courage, but he finally tells Malik, "He's in love with you." In the dark of the bedroom, neither him nor Malik stirs, and there is deafening silence.

"He loves you."


	6. The Evil that Men Do

A few weeks into autumn, Kadar insists on becoming a fledging Assassin, and Malik continues to deny the request even when, in the end, the decision is not his at all. (Malik is certain this idea has been instilled by Altaïr.)

Kadar is inducted as a novice and, like his brother and his idol, he never returns to school. Now he learns to write with a blade and a gun, inking the walls and floors with an enemy's blood. Now he does one hundred push-ups instead of figuring the square root of x. Now he learns to dismantle a rifle instead of learning the capitals of the world.

Malik is not happy about this change in his little brother.

The time the three of them spend together, swirling in the art of hidden warfare, they are the closest they have ever been, yet Malik feels as lonely as ever, as does Altaïr, as does Kadar. Malik doesn't like the bruises Kadar has from training; he prefers the blisters of heavy writing with pencils on Kadar's fingers to pockets of blood beneath the skin from punches and tosses. Altaïr returns to sleeping in the closet here and there when he isn't trying to weasel into bed with Malik and Kadar.

At night, Malik has to become The Storyteller. Even if he has no books, they beg and beg for him to tell them a story, something grandeur, something exciting or adventurous, and, sometimes, something terrifying and scary.

Then one night, Kadar whispers, "Tell us a story about our parents."

Neither Altaïr nor Kadar are ready for such a secret, and Malik has kept it long enough to know he can keep it until his dying breath if it comes down to it. Thinking of their father burns shame under Malik's skin, and there's not much he knows about their mother aside from her dark hair and quiet voice. Instead, he tells them the rest of the story of the great Gilgamesh and Enkidu, one of his favorites from high school, one he ventured to read on his own time again and again. Kadar and Altaïr don't ask for a story about parentage again.

A year later, Ezio sends Altaïr and Malik on a mission, suggesting they take Kadar along for the experience.


	7. O God, Forgive Our Living and Our Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for being slack with all of my writing, especially things I have started and not finished. Someone gave me a stern push to write more for this. 
> 
> You know who you are.

Ezio makes Altaïr go to the funeral even with the black eye, busted lip, and missing tooth. Ezio makes him go even after being formally demoted.

Malik is filthy in nice clothes, shoulder-deep or more in the grave, one arm in a cast and sling, placing packed balls of dirt down, and then struggling to take the shrouded Kadar by himself and put the boy on the right side with just one arm. He's focused, but frustrated, in pain, and he wants to wail like the women wailed long ago, but it's forbidden, so he wails out through his ruddy eyes with nothing more than a trembling lip while deep-voiced men chant, "In the Name of Allah, we bury according to the way of the Prophet of Allah." And Malik stumbles, flushes, but decides he would rather stumble than drop Kadar, than not be there at all like he almost was, and when he lies the brother down, he thinks maybe for a moment it's a game, a go-to-sleep game, and Kadar will be trying to scratch out of the covering claiming he can't breath.

Nothing moves, and Malik gets some of the shroud wet before he's hauled out by Italian muscle and given a handkerchief with _EAF_ stitched into one corner.

He gets dirt on it, much to his dismay.

Altaïr doesn't stay, but instead sneaks out by quietly slipping to the back of the handful of people who attended, and when he's out of sight, he keeps running, and he runs, and runs, and runs until his head throbs all over, and his calves ache, and his eyes sting with tears, and his lungs feel ready to burst. He runs more, runs right out of the city and into the thickness of Central Park, runs down the paths, deeper, taking turns, dodging other people, and then he scrambles high up into a tree without a second glance down, and he clings to the wide trunk, shaking, offering carbon dioxide penance for the oxygen he desperately needs, thinking he is the one dying, the one dead, the one for which the prayers are said.

He can still hear _To Allah we belong, and to Allah we return!_ ringing though the streets from the cemetery, ringing in his already buzzing ears. He can still hear the deafening silence that came when he watched his father die for the law of equal exchange. He can still remember the bearded men around him, mourning, white with blades and guns, chanting the words _From the Earth did We create you._

_And into it shall We return you._

_And from it shall We bring you out once again._


	8. Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-con things because hatesex.

Malik is a dormant, puffing volcano. He is bitter and sharp of tongue, but he is never entirely violent until he reaches the end of his rope. And he always seems to reach the end of his rope with Altaïr.

Rage begins at the base of Malik's stomach, churning it, burning, and the more Altaïr talks, the more he talks, the faster it rises upward. His neck and face grow dark under his swarthy skin, his eyes quiver, and it's hard for him to remain seated any longer.

When he stands up, it's with force, and he grabs the edge of the moderately elaborate, Italian-looking coffee table in front of him, flipping it with one single yank. Everything on the top leaves in a flying mess. Candles burst into a thousand waxy pieces as they hit the hardwood, littering glass from their containers in all directions. A vase of fake flowers shatters, and the right corner of the table splinters as it collides with the floor.

"What do you know?!" Malik howls hoarsely, pointing a finger in Altaïr's direction. "What do you know about missing him, you cowardly mutt?! You ran away without looking back! You don't know what went on! You didn't have Kadar struggling to breathe in your arms because he was choking on his own blood!"

Altaïr can feel Ezio exit the room without having to see it; the Italian has obviously given up on mediating this interaction. Altaïr is simmering quietly, but it's clear that he's just barely reigning in some pretty loud anger. He sips at a small glass of scotch amid the chaos of the overturned table, and there's the musical ring of the oversize ice cube on the glass to round up the end of the noise. He sets it down next to a small potted plant on a table by the door and straightens up, pushing glass and debris out of his path with his shoes, coming just a little closer so that he can deliver his answer like a poisoned dart. His eyes narrow, amber shards, teeth flashing like quartz, a heart as black and sharp as a shard of obsidian coloring his voice.

"Your brother loved me more than you," Altaïr hisses. "While you held him, I was finishing the job. He knew I was sending him to his death, and he died willingly so that I could save you. And now, look at you." He pauses just long enough to really sink the barbs in. "Now you so perfectly represent what you were that day: dead weight, a useless limb."

The billowing fire in Malik's earthy eyes is extinguished momentarily. He's shocked, not because of the words necessarily, but because of the gall Altaïr has to say them. To say them to his face, looking at him as if nothing had happened, as if he were at fault. 

Altaïr is leaning in, bristled like a dog about to bite. The beginning of a smile is pulling back the edges of his mouth so that he looks like a polished skull in the light. He pulls up his hood and laughs before retreating to the wall he was leaning on before. "He loved me more than you," he continues. "And I used him like a tool because I needed a distraction. And all of this because you held him back. Maybe he would have survived with more training. Maybe he would have survived if you hadn't treated me so coldly. Because then he never would have loved me the way he did. You drove us to this." Something sick in him wants to feel bones break. "You failed him in every way. I only failed him in one."

All at once, the fire ignites again, burning more brilliantly before, an all-consuming hate. " _How dare you, you piece of shit!_ " Malik growls in a mother language that comes naturally to him in moments of passion. He's more angry now that Altaïr has walked away, as if that's the end of the argument when it has only just begun. 

The speed in which Malik closes the distance between them is nearly unnatural. The glass under his feet barely have time to crunch before he's bunching his fingers into the hood over Altaïr's head. He jerks it away, relishing the sound of ripping stitches. His other arm, the twisted, ghastly thing, is already cranked back, and as soon as the hood is gone, he pops Altaïr in the cheek with his fist full-force. It's a sad and disheartening punch. Malik already knows the muscles in that arm are weak and the coordination of it is off. He wanted to break Altaïr's nose, but he would have never been able to get enough strength behind it. He probably did little more than bruise the skin, and it doesn't satiate him as much as it should have, but at least it's _something_.

Altaïr accepts it without so much as a flinch of defense.

" _My brother was not compensation, you son of a bitch!_ " Malik screams, tossing his weight forward to shove Altaïr against the wall, to get in close. " _When are you going to grow up and admit that you have the blood of an innocent person on your hands?_ " he asks in a hiss, spitting and ravenous. " _He trusted you and admired you, Goddammit, and you left him for dead! I don't give a shit if you left me! But Kadar, Altaïr! He died knowing that you used him for your own gain!_ " His fingers tighten; he feels like shredding Altaïr down the middle, digging apart the man's flesh and throwing insides in every direction like a rabid dog. " _He should have never been an Assassin!_ " he continues, breathless, tears of frustration clouding his vision. " _You could have taught him just as much as I could have, Altaïr! If you had spent less time fucking my brother and more time teaching him how to defend himself, maybe he wouldn't be in a hole in the ground in a cemetery in New York!_ "

When Malik seems to run out a bit, Altaïr gently wraps his arms around the other man, sniffling against the blood starting to run from his nose, licking at what blood is seeping from the broken scar on his lips. Altaïr knows the truth of this could well break both of them, but this close, he can at least tell half of it... he can do that.

" _Your brother asked me, right before I put that plan into action... he asked me to save your life. I went into that building with the knowledge that he would die, but I knew I would have to end it before things went to hell.... He counted on me for that... because he knew... he could trust me to do that._ " Altaïr hesitates a moment, switches back from his native language to English, low and soft. "I loved him.... I taught him what I could, and I loved him as often as I could. He died a good death... because he was protecting what he loved. If you have any respect for his memory at all, then you will not pursue this any further than you already have. I have no reason to be blamed for any of this." He holds tight, and something in him stirs: the sick love, the jealousy. Here he is, looking Malik in the eye, the object of all his wrath, and yet, Malik is still staring right through him. "He wouldn't want us to hate each other. He knew what I wanted for us. All of us."

"No," Malik whispers immediately, quiet and gentle. "No, no.... No...." He gives Altaïr a punch in the ribs with his wounded arm, but it's terribly fragile and pathetic, and then he can do nothing more than cling for dear life. "No...." He's not sobbing, but the tears are there, pouring down his face, and he blinks his eyes hard to clear his vision. "You killed the only good in my life," he croaks. "You got the easy way out, you bastard. You didn't have to see him dying; you didn't have to bury him!" 

The thought only makes Malik grimace again, and he wills himself that no more crying would be had. He has long since shed all his tears for his brother, but it's hard not to shed them in frustration from Altaïr's endless bullshit. "Don't talk to me about respect for his memory after what you just said," he hisses, using an arm to wipe at his face even if it means getting Altaïr's blood on his shoulder. "If you loved him half as much as you claim to, you would have saved him, too.... You would have done everything to save him. Altaïr, damn you! He was all that was good! He had so much potential, and you handed him to the grave! 

"Is that what you wanted? You wanted him gone? You had him used all up, so it was all right to throw him by the wayside? To get rid of extra baggage?" Malik lowers his voice, hoarse and rumbling like a leaving, angry storm cloud. "I won't ever forgive you. You killed my brother for your glory. I hope you're happy. There's a special place in hell for people like you, Altaïr."

"There was only one to be saved and I chose you," Altaïr snaps. "Do you understand? He wanted to save me, and I wanted to save you, because it was always you." Altaïr's hands tie into Malik's shirt, fists balled so tight that his knuckles turn yellow. His teeth grind loud and he uses every bit of strength in his wiry frame to shake Malik hard; once, twice, three times. Rattling, jarring movements, ones that take away the last vestiges of control from him. Blood flows, eyes burn, veins stand out against golden skin that had grown ruddy with anger. "Can you see me now?"

"What?" Malik breathes, voice stuttering at the end from the first shake, one that does little to get some sense into him. The second. The third. He still can't seem to wrap his head around what Altaïr is saying, what Altaïr means.

" _Can you see me now, brother?_ " Altaïr repeats. " _I am all you have left. I am the only one left to you. I chose to save you because I loved you more. Is that what you wanted to hear? Did you need to know? Are you happy now?_ " His voice breaks, and at the same time, so does his anger. All that's left is paralyzing bitterness, apathy. He shakes one more time, then shoves Malik away. "You may have had to bury him, but I killed him. We both loved you and wanted you to continue."

But then it comes back to Malik, suddenly and hauntingly: the quiet of the room except for the purring air conditioning, the sound of Kadar's silence in the bed beside him, a hazy and overcast day that didn't let an ounce of light in through the blinds, the intake of air while words are being mulled over and decided. And then Kadar whispers, _He in love with you._ Malik's chest feels full of hot air and ready to bust. This revelation is as terrifying now as it was then, and he wonders if he had done anything about it would Kadar still be with him.

"I still want you in my life," Altaïr is saying, "but now I can see there's nothing left. His death was meaningless. I should have let you burn."

Refocusing his attention, Malik is still shocked, but he raises his hand and slaps Altaïr across the face, though not as hard as he would have liked it. "You're a selfish bastard," he says angrily. "My brother, who you pretended to love, is in the ground not even a month, and you 'still want me in your life'? What if I still want _Kadar _in my life? Do I get that? No, you made certain of it. His death was not meaningless, just murder." Malik's eyes narrow, a dangerous glint of obsidian in the light. "You got my brother killed to get me to yourself? When you could have just told me instead of being a coward?" A small sneer comes to his lips. "I don't think the beating you got from Ezio was enough."__

__The anger inside of Altaïr flares up again, and he throws himself at Malik without restraint, all bared teeth and a hard fist to Malik's chin. Malik can feel his teeth clack together painfully, and for a moment all he can see is stars, but there is a wiry strength in Altaïr that yanks Malik forward, pulling their bodies in together sealing any gap between them. Altaïr crushes his lips against Malik's own, rough and shaky. It's a scratchy and unsatisfying kiss, and it's over almost as soon as it has begun. When he pulls back a little, panting softly, he whispers, "This is for your brother. Now why don't you finish what Ezio started?"_ _

__"You son of a bitch."_ _

__Quickly, Malik swoops his arm around Altaïr's neck and takes both of them to the ground in a pile of limbs and a bang of noise. He thinks to give the man a few needed punches, but his wounded arm is already sore and pulsing from the two times before. Instead, he bunches his fists into Altaïr's clothes and throttles the man against the floor. "You--could--have--just--told--me!" he yells, face dark and rich from exertion._ _

__Malik hates Altaïr. He hates Altaïr more than anything else. He hates Altaïr's stupidly attractive European face. He hates Altaïr's irritatingly intricate scar and piercing, yellow eyes. He hates Altaïr's limber body, with its galaxy of healed wounds and scratches, its wiry muscles, and its skin the color of coffee when cream is poured in. He hates Altaïr's arrogant sneer when its shadowed by a white hood. He hates Altaïr's walking sway, and the... and the..._ _

__Altaïr gets a pound on the chest with a fist, a half-assed attempt at battery, and Altaïr grunts under the weight of the strike and the bite of glass in the back. It's useless. Malik doesn't think he will ever get all the anger inside of him out. He will die from it, be endlessly tormented by it. So instead he gives Altaïr a kiss. It's hard and rough, somewhat biting and somewhat consuming, but mostly full of tunnel vision and uncertainty. He doesn't stop, doesn't let go, continues even when he's panting and struggling for air, and Altaïr lets it happen, lets the man test this new thing, try it, feeling the hot breaths shared between them._ _

__What last few shreds of rope holding Altaïr back is cut; he wraps himself around Malik and reciprocates almost viciously, driving his hips upward into Malik's own, rough and demanding. There's a strength in his wiry frame, a hunger in the way he drives his tongue into Malik's mouth, even though part of him expects to be bitten. He's expecting Malik to strangle him, to kill him, but, God, it feels good, and he can't help the way his body is responding to all of this. He groans softly, letting his head fall back, not caring that glass bites at his scalp._ _

__"I should kill you," Malik whispers, but his voice is too heady, too thick for it to even be taken seriously. "You should be dead," he continues, panting, "tossed in one of the rivers, or thrown into one of the garbage dumps. It's fitting." For a moment he's quiet, staring into Altaïr's eyes with his own burning and fiery. "But that would be too easy for you, wouldn't it? Dying? That would get you off the hook. Oh no, Altaïr, I don't think so." Malik lowers his voice, face right above Altaïr's own. "You're going to suffer, like I have to suffer. You're going to live, and you're going to think about Kadar every day. You're going to think about him every time you see me, every time you go out, every time you eat, or drink, or sleep. Just like I have to do, too."_ _

__And then Malik kisses Altaïr again, still just as rough and quick, rousing up a groan. He's not exactly sure why he gets a sick sense of pleasure out of this intimacy, out of doing this to Altaïr which is basically giving the man what has always been desired. But he does anyway, and with satisfaction. His fingers explore the length of Altaïr's sides, clothes first, and then under them, touching the skin he had never touched this way before, but sometimes thought about. It's different. It's not Kadar's body, not that he touched his brother his way, and it's not his own body, and it's not the body of a woman. It's rigid and whittled with muscled, rough with scar tissue, long and lean like a cat, something he can't stop touching._ _

__The more Malik touches, the more noises Altaïr makes, head tilted to expose his throat, the skin there still silky soft with youth, vulnerable, pulse bounding along the sleek line of muscle running from the corner of his jaw to the gentle rise of collarbones._ _

__In one swift motion, Malik shoves Altaïr's clothes up and out of the way, but surprisingly takes a bite out of the man's neck and shoulder, leaving an angry set of teeth marks that make Altaïr tighten his thighs and squirm. Malik does the same again, further down on the fleshy rise of pectoral muscle covering Altaïr's heart, and Altaïr realizes just exactly how much of a wildcard Malik is going to be, just how much different this is going to be from his trysts with Ezio._ _

__The teeth and their ache makes Altaïr retaliate in his own way, nails biting into Malik's muscle, yanking hard at the waist of the man's jeans as he slips fingers beneath, exploring beneath Malik's shirt. Where Kadar was like an unfinished portrait, Malik is a completed piece: solid and substantial, almost stocky in a way; dark skinned and hardened by years of training. Pound for pound, Malik's strength is far superior, though Altaïr knows he can at least rely on the weakness of his left arm if anything should go particularly sour._ _

__Altaïr speaks softly before he really has much time to think about it: "I'll never leave you...."_ _

__The words bring a bitter taste to Malik's mouth, and he bites Altaïr roughly once more, hard, something scoldingly angry. He wants to hear Altair in pain, if at least from a small thing. He wants to feel Altair squirm and beg, and he realizes that maybe he can mask the terrifying desire of wanting Altair with revenge and malice. So he continues to bite, not giving Altair the benefit of any silent asking. He bites and bites, each one a chastisement, each one consuming Altaïr in enough sorrow that he regrets even speaking._ _

__And then Malik finally sits up enough to actually look at what he is biting: a scarred and meticulously decorated canvas of flesh, a real Assassin piece of work. Some of the scars look ancient, old enough to be had in boyhood when the skin was fragile and fresh, but the wound was so deep that the remnant is still there._ _

__Gently, Malik fingers a few, quiet and curious, having never had much luxury to see Altair with these eyes, the ones that drink all of the man in. Only in passing did he have glimpses: training, working, exercise. The look sends ripples through Altaïr, and Altaïr thinks his heart is on fire, his love being fanned like embers with every passing glance._ _

__Altaïr wants to say something. Everything in him is aching to give voice to the way he has and always will feel, but he stays himself as Malik reaches over a shoulder to dig the shirt up with one hand, pulling it up over his head and off. Altaïr's tongue slips out in an old habit, licking at the scar that divides his lower lip, tasting blood. Teeth follow, tearing the flesh again. Altaïr has wanted this more than anything, and it shows in the unconscious action. He's nervous, wound up, excited, maybe even a little frightened, and his hands start up to touch Malik's muscular waist, maybe fit his fingers in the muscles of Malik's ribs that lace together like a dog's teeth. But the scar stops him._ _

__Malik has very little else to distract from the one wound he hates the most: the flesh from shoulder to elbow is a twisted gnarl of scar tissue. It's hideous, red and newly healed, shiny. It looks less like an arm and more like a biomass stretched between two clean pieces of flesh, and Malik is staring Altair down as if daring the man to say anything about it. Altaïr's eyes lock on it, and there is nothing at all to hide the shock and pain on his face._ _

__That pretty white face of his, with the amber-bright eyes and soft ashy-brown hair. Altaïr's heart has always been affixed so firmly to his sleeve ever since the day he met Kadar and Malik in Ezio's office, since Kadar spoke the language of his fathers and he showed more than just vacant sorrow in those heavy black brows, the firm set of his mouth. Now he doesn't look shocked. The vacant sorrow has returned. He picks himself up a little, fingers reaching carefully to touch, and every muscle in Malik's body tenses. All at once, Altaïr has leaned in to kiss the intricate, bloody lines, maybe attempting to take away the pain, or own the responsibility of those actions that created this mess. His heart aches miserably, and he knows he will be hurt for this, but continues regardless, and initially Malik pulls away, but forfeits retreat for whatever comes._ _

__The kiss surprises him._ _

__It surprises Malik so much that he is embarrassed and confused and that, in turn, makes him angry. He wraps the fingers of his good hand around Altaïr's neck, squeezes threateningly, considering choking the life right out of the man. But then he loosens his fingers, takes his hand away by brushing it up over the side of Altaïr's face and into the brown hair. It's so hard, he says to his brother inwardly, to love someone you hate and hate someone you love._ _

__Suddenly, Malik grips hard, yanking Altaïr's head back. He looks right into Altaïr's eyes with a murky pit of dead, black ones. "Are you satisfied?" he asks, voice low. "My brother's life for your one desire?"_ _

__With no bit of gentleness, Malik drops Altaïr back to the ground, pouncing like a large and wild cat. He grinds enough with his hips to feel the crack of their pelvises, to skid them on the floor a little ways, and then he's biting again, biting hard enough to tear some blood away, to drink it. When Malik pulls away, he sneers, drunk, teeth stained rusty with blood. A beast has taken him. He claws at Altaïr's pants, shredding them away piece by piece; belt, buttons, zipper, cloth. When he has what he wants, it's chaos. He descends upon it with a mouth and tongue burning hotter than the rage inside him. The act is merciless and greedy. It's full of want and need, but lacking both._ _

__Every abuse is taken without so much as a whimper from Altaïr, except for the moment the pants come off. When Malik descends upon him, Altaïr grits his teeth against what he doesn't deserve, fingers fisting in Malik's dark hair, pulling at him, dragging him up with a sort of desperation Altaïr's never really shown before. "No...." Altaïr breathes sharply, flushed, shining with a thin sheen of sweat. "No, you can't. You don't have the right. I will not.... I will not fall for you. Not like this." He actually looks visibly upset by the mere thought of it. With gritted teeth, bunched thighs, and a chest tight, Altaïr shudders. He seems scared to let go, but clearly, he enjoyed the attention he was getting, awkwardly perched there in nothing but knee-high socks and Converse, with an erection hovering just above his bunched abs. His eyes narrow. "Don't hold back. Don't treat me like you actually want this. I know you don't. So just do what you want to do...." Altaïr frowns and lets go, flopping back onto the pile of his clothing, closing his eyes and preparing for the worst. It wouldn't surprise him at all if Malik just walks out on him._ _

__For a third time, Malik is at odds with what he thinks should be done. There is a tiny sliver of him that still flusters at the thought of Altaïr, at the sight of him, something that sets his heart racing and his skin crawling. There's a larger part of him that hates Altaïr for all the man is worth, a part of him that would leave Altaïr to death, or push Altaïr in front of a car if given the chance._ _

__And then there's still a little left over of him that remembers Kadar, remembers his brother's love and adoration for this man. Kadar, who tried so hard to get them to love one another, but instead had to love each of them himself, had to be hurt by them, used by them; Altaïr, living out his love for Malik, and Malik living out his dream of not being an Assassin, but a scholar._ _

__After a moment of indecisiveness, Malik leans down close to Altaïr's face, eyes narrowing. "You're more of a fool than I thought," he whispers. "If I wanted treat you like I actually did, you would be hanging out the window by a noose, but, unlike you, I don't murder my brothers, and I'm not a rapist." Though it doesn't occur to him really that perhaps Altaïr stopped him from being one. "You won't goad me into being a monster like yourself."_ _

__And it's almost like it's the time to pull away and, in fact, walk out, leaving Altaïr to be miserable and naked among the glass, and to rot in guilt and resentment. Malik knows he really should. But he doesn't. He leans down to place the strangest kiss on Altaïr's broken and bleeding lips, one that's gentle, soft, maybe a little chaste. He tries to imagine how Kadar kissed this man, young and naive and bursting with want, and it makes him sick to consider. Altaïr's expression crumples: heartbreak and misery._ _

__And the kiss; it's enough to draw angry tears that burn Altaïr's cheeks and make him feel a deep shame inside of his chest, a painful sort of admission that he has been guilty of all these crimes of which he has been accused. So the moment Malik pulls away, he grits his teeth, and squeezes his eyes shut. "Fine. I'll do it for you," he spits._ _

__It's amazing just how much leverage Altaïr can put into those long limbs, that lean body. He has always been the better of them in many ways... and here is no different. He even takes full advantage of Malik's weak arm, flipping him to that side using hard thighs and the impressive torque generated by his hips and waist. Malik's damaged arm gives with little resistance, and he spirals off to the side, leaving himself open for Altaïr to follow through. And Altaïr does, pinning Malik down and, just as he was bitten, he bites in return, knowing that each one will leave a mark._ _

__"Altaïr!" Malik barks as his hands are wrestled down by the wrists. He knows, however, that Altaïr won't stop, so he says nothing more except for reproachful hisses for each bite. "Have you lost your mind?" he gasps, but Altaïr only leans back and sneers at him._ _

__"Would you like me to be gentle?" Altaïr asks as he hastily begins to pick away at the rest of Malik's clothes. "The way I was with your brother? Or should I show you the real meaning of the words you choose to just throw around?" He grins wickedly. "Perhaps while your brother was teaching me English, you should have sat in on the lessons. You'll be doing more than sitting on a lesson here soon."_ _

__"Get off me!" Malik spits angrily, face darkening. "You were never gentle with my brother! You broke his heart and then got him killed! I should have been poisoning your food while he was teaching you English!" He thrashes his legs, twisting his torso like a snake, eyes wild. "You should have froze to death like a stray in that park! Ezio should have never saved you!"_ _

__There's a sudden and stark halt of movement. With Malik's pants down, Altaïr arches over, frozen, still openly aroused--though probably just from the agitation of movements--and now he's mad as hell. His eyes are completely focused, pupils wide as a cat's in the dark, and his pale skin has been swashed dark and ruddy. He lowers his head slowly and hisses sharply through his teeth, a sound as pointed as a knife between the ribs, punctuated with a little moisture, blood, and saliva that flecks Malik's cheek, "Speak ill of me. Speak ill of anyone you want. Even your prophet. God himself." There's barely a waver in his voice; it's the voice he uses when he kills men, when he's on a mission to take a life. "But if you ever, ever speak ill of Ezio again, I'll cut out your heart and burn it while you watch." The redness is spreading to Altaïr's chest and back, veins standing out clear everywhere they possibly can, like a horse fresh from the races. He lets go of Malik's hands, daring the man to even try. The pants get tugged, and when they won't come of easy, he tears away shoes, yanks the clothing away and resumes his previous position, not by drawing close, but by grabbing Malik's hips and roughly yanking him close, heedless of the glass on the floor._ _

__Altaïr's looking, though. This will be rough, and it will not be kind, but he's no monster. He thinks for a moment, then smirks, reaches for a small bottle of something that skittered over their way when the table fell. Gun oil. He laughs cruelly._ _

__It occurs to Malik that he has few choices._ _

__He is strangely not ashamed to be lying nude beneath a man groomed to be a merciless killing machine, even one he has never entirely been nude in front of before. He is not ashamed to be half hard, or to on the verge of assaulted. He is not ashamed to be marked by teeth and blood, or to be scratched by the fingernails of glass from a broken vintage, Italian coffee table. All of these are little worry compared to the choice he is about to make and how it will benefit him in the end._ _

__On one hand, he can shut his eyes and let come what may. On the other, he can fight like he has fought all of his life; a struggle to survive whether it be stealing and pawning, shoving a blade through a back or under an armpit, or issuing orders to boys younger than his brother was. Something in him snaps._ _

__Malik uses his lame arm because it will only need to be a distraction. Quickly, he palms Altaïr's face, shoving the man's head back and away, and Altaïr grins like it's a game because he has a notion to bite it like a rabid dog and shake viciously. To their right, there's a cracked portrait of Ezio, seated, surrounded by his standing mother and sister, one that had been on the table. The three look professional, and they are even smiling, but there is no happiness in their eyes. Malik fingers the edge of the frame, gets it in his grasp, and then uses it to smash the side of Altaïr's head. The world in Altaïr's head rings, and time seems to slow down while everything sinks into a beautiful darkness. Glass falls with a chime-like tingle, and Altaïr's vision twists and flashes, white like a flock of startled doves._ _

__Bucking his hips, Malik slings Altaïr as he goes. And then he pounces after, tackling Altaïr to the ground a foot or so to the left, struggling to gain the upper hand, to position himself even if his knees ache in the glass. If Altaïr was gentle with his brother during sex, such things would never make up for when Altaïr was an asshole, and Malik realizes Altaïr has caused him to reach the point of no return. He realizes it is time to make Altaïr pay, even if he will hate himself for it later._ _

__Like an animal, Malik bites Altaïr hard on the shoulder, clamping down with his teeth. He hooks his arms under Altaïr's knees and tosses the other's legs up before shoving himself down in between them. Actions become reactionary, driven only by cause and consequence, and Altaïr's hands crumple in close to his face to protect it, spine arching sharp to take so much abused and over-sensitive skin away from the glass fangs in the floor. And then there are the teeth. Altaïr looses all sense of what's happening to him, except that he knows he's pinned, so he fights blindly, desperate teeth and claws, body bucking to no avail. Altaïr realizes belatedly that the feral voice on the air is his own, just screaming obscenities in their native tongue, broken occasionally by soft pleading._ _

__One of Malik's hands grips the edge of the overturned table and the other takes Altaïr's face, squeezing. He leans in close, panting, voice low and like the grinding of rocks. "This is one game you will regret playing," he warns._ _

__There is blood in Altaïr's mouth-- _When had he bitten his tongue so badly?_ he wonders--running thick from the corners, and when Malik gets close enough, instead of asking him to be kind, to use something to make it easier, he winds up and spits directly in Malik's face, splattering it with blood and saliva. _ _

__Malik sees red._ _

__His head swims with fury, vision darkening and blurring before returning. He thinks he might have not even breathed during that time._ _

__He shoves Altair's head away, but doesn't bother wiping his face, instead squinting, he goes about what he intended to do, forgetting the searing pain of ground glass in his knees and feet, the state of affairs happening right in the middle of Ezio's penthouse parlor. If he could be a fly on the wall, he would be ashamed. If he could remember who he is, his name, his morals, he would have stopped ages ago._ _

__But already Malik is trying to force himself into Altaïr, dry and hard with anger. He isn't coordinated and Altaïr is too tense and wriggly. He fails, and then succeeds somewhere through the tirade of Altaïr's curses with only an inch, and then he can't go any further though he tries, desperate and grunting, again, and again, and again, using the table as leverage even, looking not at Altaïr but through Altaïr, seeing only hate and destruction._ _

__The motions are mechanical, systematic. He gets a little farther only because blood becomes lubrication._ _

__When Ezio enters again, the man is like an Italian tornado, vicious and quick. Malik is soulless, a husk, with dark skin turned ashy from paleness, face sallow. He is a monster being grabbed, being hauled up and away, deaf, and he sags, goes willingly and without fight._ _

__He thinks he passes out, and maybe he does because he isn't scrabbling on a glassy floor with Altaïr anymore, or taking advantage of his descent into maddening anger. His father is there rather, silent and disapproving, but when he squints it isn't his father because the eyes are blue._ _

__Brilliantly blue and unnatural, and frowning._ _


	9. A Deep Blue Ocean

There's something strangely peaceful about the bitter and chilly air whistling over the top of the roof access attached to Ezio's penthouse. Malik frequently finds solace in such a place, more so when the moon is high enough he forgets, and the sun is pretty much ready to make a dim appearance. 

Malik doesn't think he wants to jump, no, and, strangely, he doesn't think he has ever considered it; instead, it's the quiet that entices him, the wind and nothing, the lights of the buildings taking the places of stars and nothing. It's as silent up here as it was in his office when he was piddling over maps and floor plans for the next mission (ones he couldn't go on), keeping him from thinking too long and too hard.

His left arm throbs under the whip of New York air, the muscles near the shoulder, the bicep, thumping with the beat of his heart, trying to bring some life into the gnarled, twisted scar tissue that lines it. Gently, he flexes his hand, fisting it, opening his fingers, curling them back together again. All the physical therapy in the world probably wouldn't fix it, but he's stubborn. He piddles extra time away by forcing his left hand to write the snake scrawl of Arabic, or the humpy letters of English. He writes his name. He writes words. He writes Kadar's name over and over. Sometimes, he draws his brother's face. "It's nice," he says before Ezio can say anything behind him about the arm, "your view."

"Yes," Ezio murmurs. And then, very lowly, testing: "Malik...."

Quickly, Malik shakes his head, and Ezio, quieted, notices some gray at Malik's temples shining in the light, gray like his own, but he knows his gray is from adventurous revenge: too many women, too many men, too many drinks and fights while Malik's gray is from death and heart ache, from a childhood of terrorism, from a cold father, from a lot more. Ezio knows he has seen his own death and heart ache, but age found him well. Age found him when it needed to find him. Age found Malik quicker, more quickly than just now. "I should have," begins Malik, but then he stops.

And he doesn't speak for a long time. Ezio watches him in the dark, watches him not blink, not swallow.

"I should have," Malik starts again. "I... should have kept him in school."

A frown finds Ezio's lips; he knows he's just as much to blame as anyone else, being in this business, _running_ this business. There's guns and knives and hidden blades, but more often than not there's blood and broken bones and souls fading out like a dying ember. "He was in school for a long while because of you," offers Ezio, but he knows he is just grasping as straws.

"He should've been a professor," Malik continues, voice low, dark eyes staring straight ahead over the horizon as it blurs into pinks and yellows. "He was so good with people, with talking, even about nothing at all. A counselor." Malik grimaces. "A babysitter. A dog walker. _Not_ an Assassin."

"He looked up to his older brother," Ezio says, more firmly this time because he thinks, briefly, of Federico. "He had much admiration for the man, and he told me on plenty of occasions how he would gladly follow in his and Altaïr's footsteps--"

"That was the problem! _He's_ the reason it happened!" Malik yells, voice hoarse. His face swells with anger, and then suddenly it crumples into a million pieces, and he bows his head into the palms of his hands, curling his fingers, breathing long and low. "I feel like I fell off a cliff," Malik whispers, "and I'm still falling. Everyone else has gone back to their lives, even Altaïr, damn him, and I'm still sitting in the middle of a room watching, waiting. Is it selfish of me to hate them?" Finally, Malik lifts his head, peers for a moment at Ezio, looks away toward the wind and the rising sun. "I know you know better than anyone. How do you just 'move on' when they are always in your dreams, in the dinner you eat, in the bus you take?"

"You don't," is all Ezio knows to say. He is still frowning, but he's thinking of his brothers, his father, his uncle even. Petruccio begging him for feathers from the park, Federico sneaking him in pornographic magazines, his father sighing when he came home with a bloody nose and black eye, his uncle becoming like his second father. "The 'time heals all wounds' is cliché, but honest. You are young yet, the wound is still fresh, and you have every right to be angry, or upset, or sad, or jealous because you remember them so well. I was all of those things, too. The pain will fade, along with things that will seem scary at first: you forget their voice maybe, the crinkle of their eyes when they smiled, the way they smelled, something they did, but that's fine. You remember them at least, you remember their name. You say it at night like a prayer.

"But don't forget you are not the only one who has ever felt this way. Others, in their own way, have had things taken from them that they will never get back." Ezio stares Malik down, and Malik, stubborn as he is, stares back. "You don't have to forgive him," murmurs Ezio, "but you should at least talk to him, if only to scream at him how you feel."

Malik doesn't look convinced.

"You might--" starts Ezio, but the door to the roof opens quickly, and a broad and muscled man eases out of the shadows as Ezio and Malik turn to look. The man looks terrifying, huge and powerful, but stands patiently, and in a way that makes him seem more like an over-grown pup than a monster. "Agostino?"

"Apologies, Sir," the man says, brows coming together. "It's Altaïr," he adds after a pause. "It's bad."


	10. Beryl

The sun is hot and dry, beating down unfiltered with a sky that is crystal clear and as blue as ever.

Altaïr runs his naked feet along the rough, warm ground without looking, curling his toes into the dirt while he lies on his back, upper body shed of his white robes like the beginning of a serpent's moulting. A shadow pours over him from above, and he blinks, but then things have changed.

There's men ahead of him, and the urge to kill is thrumming in his neck and temples. He feels light and giddy as he approaches, slinking through the shadows until he gets right up to the backside of the one in the rear, enough to smell the man, and then he shoves his blade into the giving flesh beside the man's spine.

The alley extends far in front of him, and he stands at the very back where the darkness consumes nearly everything. He looks at his hands, finding they are covered in blood, but he can't tell if it's warm or cold, or dry, or wet. Lowering his arms, he finds the heaped body of a brother, the grey an white of the outfit stained by a rusty liquid. He pushes the body with his foot, rolls it over, and when it unfurls from within itself, the bluest eyes stare up at him without seeing him, hazed and empty.

It's like looking up into the hot and dry sky, unfiltered, crystal clear and as blue as ever.


	11. Cobalt

Water comes in a torrent, sweeping over Altaïr and lapping him up. He struggles against the waves, slaps the surface with his arms and hands, gasping.

He can hear the drum of the depths in his ears when his head goes under, or maybe it's the drum of his frantic heart.

Water spills into his mouth. He chokes, his nose burning.

His hands continue to hopelessly slap, but the liquid of life passes through his fingers without resistance. His eyes burn.

Something tangles around his feet--

he kicks, and screams, and writhes

\--twines through his legs--

he screams, and writhes, and kicks

\--and begins to pull him under.


	12. We Are Two Lions Littered In One Day

It's not often Ezio receives a blocked number, so he answers the phone in the middle of the _Lacrymosa_ movement against his better judgment, thinking nothing of it. A wrong number. A telemarketer. 

A warm, husky voice greets him from the other end, saying, in Italian, _How charming of you, Mr. Auditore, to answer my call._

The skin on the back of Ezio's neck crawls with goosebumps. It's a man Ezio knows better than almost any other man, and he quickly grits his teeth to keep his tongue from flapping. The voice is both infuriating and strangely seductive all at once, and Ezio's ear tingles and burns.

_I'm a bit disappointed, however,_ the voice continues, still in Italian. _You see, I thought you would be someone who was harder to get a hold of, but in the end, here we are._ The man chuckles in the mouth piece. _How is your Saluki mutt doing? You must keep them on a tight leash, or they will get ahead of themselves, and then they will not be good for anything._ The smile is in the man's voice. _And then you will have to put them down._

"What do you want, Cesare?" Ezio asks. Malik is looking across the desk at him, eyes black and piercing and knowing.

_To check up on an old friend, of course_ , Cesare replies. _I doubt you have many people who go out of their way to check up on you, no?_

"Since when does a Borgia piece of shit check up on an Auditore unless there's something to gain?"

_Ah, how crass of you_ , Cesare chastises, laughing. _I suppose you have caught me. I do wish to gain something. As you've undoubtedly heard, my father has recently... passed away. Next month, I will formally take his place as CEO. There's going to be a public celebration, so to speak. I wanted to personally invite you to attend._

Ezio stares long and hard over the desk at Malik, and the Syrian matches his gaze.

He. Is. Toying. With. Us, Ezio mouths.

Malik's eyes narrow.

_Have I rendered you speechless with my proposal?_ Cesare asks quietly. _You are afraid, but, ah, don't be, my dear friend. A lot of people will be there. It will be outside of the building, right on the steps. What ill could befall you in such a situation?_

Again, Ezio looks to Malik, and it's almost like he wants some kind of advice.

Play his game, Malik mouths.

For a moment, Ezio hesitates, and then he says, "Fine. I accept. Send me a physical invitation, and I accept."

The snake in Cesare's voice comes through the phone, grinning and sly. _Very good_ , he says. _Very good._

The phone clicks.


	13. Azure

There's a plain of wheat-grass swaying toward the horizon, and Altaïr is standing waist high in it, relishing the warm sun that peeks out behind a great many clouds. A storm is moving in from behind him, but it is in the far distance, and beside him on the left stands someone else a bit taller and someone else a bit shorter on the right.

Thunder rumbles, and Altaïr looks over his shoulder at the storm, waiting, and another explosion of heat lightning bubbles to the surface of the angry, black clouds. He counts, each second one by one, trying to go as slow and fast as a second, and then there's another growl of thunder.

Three and half miles, one of the boys on his side says. Seven seconds is three and a half miles.

Altaïr looks back at the other horizon; the crystal clear and blue canvas dotted with puffy clouds is completely different than the sight behind him. He wonders how two very different weather events can happen in the same sky at the same time, one south and one north, both in sight and yet miles and miles apart.

A horse snorts, and Altaïr is suddenly aware of the presence of three animals nearby. He looks at them, but they are blurry, and he can only make out a strange Picasso-like painting of them, browns and blacks and whites. One focuses a little better when he squints: an American Indian horse, spotted big on the rear and flanks with white and peppered inside that with brown; the face is a white mask that ends just before the ears. The horse lifts its head into the sudden blowing of wind, shakes it, and then regards Altaïr with quiet wisdom.

We should go back, one of the boys is saying. The storm is coming.

Altaïr looks behind him. The storm has crept up on them with the speed and silence of a stalking wildcat. The wind comes in gusts, flattening the wheat-grass in rippling waves, and one of the boys takes Altaïr by the hand. 

Let's race the rain, the boy says, eyes shining like blue diamonds.


	14. The House of Cats

The first thing out of the Russian's mouth when he opens the door is a playful call of, "Pussies!"

A hoard of cats zoom toward the doorway, meowing loudly in greeting; three, six, ten cats or more in total. Misha squeezes his six foot five, roughly two hundred pound frame through the door, kneeling once he's in the front room to greet the multitude of cats that unfurl against his knees. Once his gigantic body is out of the way, it's surprising to find two smaller and slimmer boys trailing behind, looking flabbergasted.

"This place is littered with fucking cats," Ciro says. "Pun in-fucking-tended."

"That is one of first words I learned here," Misha says, ignoring the comment. He fights to pet each cat that demands his attention, and he grins back at the two behind him; neither boy can tell if he's joking or not. "Pussy," he clarifies. "Pussy and bathroom." Slowly, he rises from the floor again, knees cracking. The cats continue to twirl about his legs, venturing over to do the same to the two boys nearby, mewling as they go.

"I request presence of owner of cats," Misha calls out into the apartment, not having to raise his voice since it was deep enough to be monstrous anyway.

It doesn't take Luciano long to get up; he is almost certainly part of the cat population and is quick to shoot straight into the air and flounce away, so daintily dressed as he is, and he is full of cursing and quick fingers that stumble with the tight laces of a traditional bodice. Agostino sighs a little, pulls his pants back up, and rolls off of the bed in a spray of cats. He tosses the door open despite Luciano's low growl of warning.

"Owner of Cats, at your service." Agostino scratches himself languidly and adjusts so that his salute isn't pointing directly at his guests. "I assume you're here on business if you're knocking at my door on such a fine day as this, no?"

Luciano, finally in his desperation, starts to slip by in search of scissors, but is caught pretty quickly by a hand on the frilly garter, and then gently reeled in so Agostino can pick out the lacing on the fancy gold brocade corset.

One of Misha's blonde eyebrows rise, sharp and quick, but not necessarily questioning. Behind him, Vittorio's lips turn downward in a struggling attempt not to smile or laugh, but he ends up having to lift a hand to cover his mouth anyway. Ciro stares, looking more than mortified, and second-hand embarrassment is close enough behind that his cheeks color.

Ciro wants to scream. A semi-truck full of nothing but mafia tattoos leading them to an apartment with a bazillion cats, a man that can give the Russian one a run for his money, and now a guy decked out in the most ridiculous lingerie.

"I lost a bet," Luciano spits bitterly on cue, standing there in all his cross-dressing glory. "If you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone, I will slit all your throats." He spits at the ground for emphasis.

"Not on the floor, dear," Agostino says, sighing gently.

Neither the Russian nor the novices utter so much as a peep about the attire, despite a few trying efforts not to lose control and laugh hysterically.

After a moment, Misha raises both hands palm-up by his sides, indicating the two novices behind him that can only half be seen. "Gambling is good way to lose what you bet," he says to Luciano, a grin coming to his lips. His hands fall back to his waist, and he shrugs a shoulder. "Boss knows when good things are happening; Italian senses." It only takes one single step backward; Misha puts himself just behind the novices, amazingly dodging cats along the way, and drops two large hands on their heads. "He sends you fresh meat. Pick one. Ciro," and he pats one's head, causing an irritable swat, "Vittorio," and he pats the other's. "Or you take two. Lots of training. Very new."

"I'm fine learning on my own, thanks. I don't need to learn how to put on corsets," quips Ciro, effectively disengaging from Misha's hand, only to have it clamp down harder without so much as a change in Misha's expression. "I'm going to get a fucking concussion!" he yells.

"Ciro not so good with mouth," Misha admits, as if he's giving details of a prospective buyer of a new car. "Great with mind, not so good with mouth. Vi...." Misha sizes up the boy who is frowning at him, searching for the right phrase. "Work in progress."

"No," Luciano is growling. "No. We only just got settled. We don't need more cats to herd. I've had enough of cats." He huffs once the corset is off, and it falls into Agostino's large hands, letting his body resume its sleek, natural state. He's not hard on the eyes, but there's a telling scar on his chest, somewhere where he's been opened up like a present. He looks like he's about to say something more, but Agostino's massive hand is over his mouth, and he's being pulled again Agostino's chest while the other man sizes up the two visitors.

In particular, Agostino is focused on Ciro, the way the boy stands, how uncomfortable the boy looks. He frowns a little. "Mouthy and... hmm"--he surveys Ciro briefly--"you'll be difficult. And the other"--he regards Vittorio--"is just little, it seems. I think the little one is promising, so yes, definitely... the other... may be a little too much like my current handful with a bad mouth."

"I do not have a bad mouth," Luciano bites out coldly, wrestling an arm that seems nearly as big as a tree trunk. "I am logical. Hell, I am the only man here with sense. Let me go...." Luciano has begun to pant a little, and eventually, he resigns to fall into Agostino's hold, scowling at anyone who gives him more than a sidelong glance.

"We'll take them both," Agostino mumbles. "Are we putting them up as well?"

"Ahh, new family makes me happy," Misha says, gathering up both Vittorio and Ciro by the shoulders and squeezing them against his bulk in the most terribly ridiculous hug--neither boy comes up past his mid-section, hair and all. 

Ciro begins an immediately struggle to get out, but Misha lets the two of them go all the same. Ciro stumbles back unsteadily, and the jagged footwork he gives to gain balance is a telltale sign there isn't something quite right with his legs.

"Perhaps this one," Misha answers, looking down at Ciro who only looks right back, annoyed. It takes a little bit, but Misha finally comes up with that he thinks is best to say for now. "Nowhere to stay," and then he continues, quickly, "Now"--he leans down, bent at the waist, lowers his voice until it sounds like the hum of grinding rocks--"these two nice men. No trouble, not from either of you, or...." He punches his left palm with a fist.

"Yeah, right," Ciro says.

"Yes," says Misha, straightening back up. "I am right." He looks between the two of the fresh novices, and then between Agostino and Luciano. "Send back if problem. Replacement will come." He grins lopsidedly. It's all joking, but his voice is still so neutral that it's hard to tell if he's being serious. "Vi will be bright and early every day, or he will get spanking. Ciro...." He surveys the particular boy thoughtfully. "I expect him to be in nice dress next time. Luciano will know exact color." Another grin. "Any words for boss before I go?"

Luciano seems ready to kill again, though if it wasn't for Agostino's massive arms, he'd probably make a damn good chance at it. And Luciano isn't the only one seeing red: likewise, if Misha wasn't a big, burly Russian veteran, Ciro would be taking some swings. Agostino gently funnels his roommate's rage in the proper direction, and Luciano vanishes into the darkness of their shared room. Cats flee from the open door, and Agostino smiles gently, and the anger in Ciro's eyes and face, both which look like they see anger often, doesn't last very long.

"No problem," Agostino says. "Tell Ezio we need a better budget. This family's growing. We need more cats."

Misha merely pats Ciro on the back. "Behave," he says, and his voice is so cold, so low, and so deep that it sends an effective ripple down Ciro's spine. And then Misha smiles, tips his head, and leaves just as easily as he had come.

"Speaking of cats," Agostino says, beckoning the now chaperoneless novices inside, "it's now your responsibility to come here and help me feed this ragged lot."


End file.
